Well, This Is Fun...
First, I'm warning you all, this is going to be a long post, so I'm using cut-tags, cause I don't want to spam you all with back dated entries. There's angst and rants and whatnot ahead, so consider yourself warned.
Grr Arrgh
Flumpitt still hasn’t shown up. And I’m now heading over the 2 weeks late mark (by my dates) but, according to the “Health Professionals” (and I use the term loosely) am technically only 8 days over. Still, I’m booked in for induction on Sunday, so at least I know one way or another, that by next Monday, there’ll be a bouncing bundle of baby joy (do you sense the sarcasm here?) that we’ll all have to get used to, and won’t that be fun?
Actually, that’s not fair. It will be fun, and nice and lovely and smushy, because that’s what happens when people have babies/new additions to families. And I will enjoy it, even if I do bitch and moan about it, which I will, because I’ll probably be very knackered and not in the mood for lovey-dovey stuff when I know exactly and precisely that it’s going to wear me out looking after a baby again. Plus, all the visits from people. Add that into the mix, and all I’ll really feel like doing is screaming. Still, it’ll be nice and fun. Sort of.
I think I’m a little apprehensive. Not because of having Flumpitt, or that Flumpitt is being a lazy boy just like Cheeky was, and is late; but because I’m wondering how Cheeky is going to react to it all. He’s still only a ‘baby’ himself, and he knows that there’s a baby in mummy’s tummy, and all that, and I think he gets it - at least a little, but still, it’s going to be a huge adjustment for him. That’s not to say it won’t be a huge one for the rest of us, but Sputnik and RaggedyAnn have only just gone through this when I had Cheeky, and they were old enough then to really understand, most, if not all of what was happening. I’m contemplating the relationship changes more than anything else at the moment, ’cause as much as I know that I care for them all the same, that doesn’t necessarily mean that they know, if you know what I mean.
Plus, there’s Pidge to consider. Pidge, who has been going out of his way, and losing time off work (money) in the meantime, getting the kids to school (because he doesn’t want me to go out and fall over in this snow - and I’ll talk about the weather in a bit, but yeah, loads of snow) and taking me down to the midwife, and generally being knackered and run down and all the things that come from wanting to see the baby that he knows we’re having, but won’t actually believe we’re having until he’s holding him… no matter how many nights sleep have been disturbed because of the fact I can’t get comfy, at all.
So, yeah, my relationship with Pidge, and how that will all, inevitably change, again, is another thing to consider, with the other things I’m considering.
So, yeah, that aside - the weather - is, for lack of a better word, nuts. We’ve had about another 2-3 inches of snow here since this morning, and it’s still coming down. I don’t particularly mind the snow myself - in fact, I’d probably enjoy taking Cheeky out in it, because he loves it, but it’s just something I can’t do. It’s too risky what with my footing and whatnot, and I really don’t want to fall over. Not that I’d want to fall over if I wasn’t about to have Flumpitt, but still… And the way that it’s practically ground everything to a halt is completely crazy. If it rains we flood, if it’s too sunny and hot, we complain, but if it snows, we all lose our minds and turn into crazy, insane people who can’t cope. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not insensitive. I’m completely aware at how bad it has been and is, for some people: not being able to leave the house, being snowed in, not being able to go shopping and not having enough food, car crashes, injuries, and even death. But for most, it’s just another day except with snow, and honestly, I can’t get why it’s that big of a deal.
Take Mum, for an example. I love her to pieces, really, I do, but you would think that, aside from the inconvenience it causes for her to get to me within fifteen minutes if I go into labour, a little bit of snow wouldn’t make much difference. You’d be so wrong about that it’d scare you. Everything from the day of the first snowfall has been overly planned, timed and everything else in between. She dissects every situation that involves her going out in one minute, and in the next, she’s devising ways in which she can avoid said situations. And if her meticulous timing plans don’t work around the weather and the traffic, it’s disastrous, and warrants ranting and raving and all sorts of maddening behaviour. Seriously, the woman has gone insane. She has issues. But I love her anyway.
Aside from not being able to go out, I actually think it all looks quite pretty. Plus, it’s funny to watch my cats attempt to run through our garden in it, because it comes to roughly half their height, and they look ridiculously, idiotically cute and moronic when they try :)
Very quickly - I’d just like to say that Winnie the Pooh is completely doing my head in. If I have to sit through this Heffalump movie one more time…
We Never Can Do Things The 'Easy' Way
Thursday, 14th Jan, 1am:
I'm still up with Pidge discussing that I have a midwife appointment for a membrane sweep at 12.30, and we're figuring out if he'll be able to get back from work in time if I go into labour, if she somehow manages to set me off, which she probably won't, but still, worth discussing. Eventually we decide on a yes he will be able to get back in time, but, if I get to the midwife and change my mind, I don't have to have it done, and we can just wait until induction day. So we go to bed.
Thursday, 14th Jan, 4.30am onwards: The Event
Woke up with twinges strong enough to not be able to go back to sleep. Every twenty minutes, and they're only lasting about 10-15 seconds each anyway, so I go downstairs. At 5.30am I promptly go back upstairs and throw up the remainder of my stomach contents (silently thanking everything that at least we ate early tonight, although, stomach bile = yuck). Cheeky wakes up with the noise, and we go downstairs. There is nothing more bizarre than setting up a wooden train set with your two year old while you're in labour, I'm telling you. Well, there is, but there wasn't at that time. The next time I look at the clock, it's 6.30am, and my contractions are coming steadily every 5-10 mins, but I can't concentrate long enough on what I'm doing long enough (because I'm having to assure Cheeky that yes, I'm ok, and yes, he's doing very well with his trains) to actually figure out how long there's lasting for, so I try waking up Pidge. By phone, not shouting, cause then Sputnik and Raggedy would wake up, and all kinds of silly business would no doubt ensue.
Six tries, it takes. Turns out they're about 50 seconds. Huh.
By 6.45am, they're going on longer than a minute at the same interval, so we call Mum to come over (cause she's watching Cheeky and taking the girls to school) so we can get to the hospital. Midwife said to stay at home for as long as possible, so that's what we're doing, dammit. The girls are up and getting dressed and whatnot, and Cheeky is still playing, and I'm still re-assuring everyone, that yes, it's ok, and that my body is just getting ready to have the baby, yes, it hurts a bit, and no, I'm ok, honest (cause the last things I need is kidlets panicking.) Anyhoo.
Mum turns up by 7.15 and we call the hospital. Well, Pidge calls the hospital, who are, in my ever so humble opinion, bloody stupid idiots, whether they're midwives for a living or not, because I'm contracting with heavy breathing and all sorts, and they won't speak to him, they absolutely have to no way in hell can talk to anybody else but me. So I'm telling the stupid woman on the phone, that I'm having the baby, and we're coming in, just going to get ready and see you soon, before coming off the phone and bitching about the fact that she wouldn't just let Pidge tell her that.
7.30 rolls by and I finally get upstairs, sit down on the loo, and oops, there you go, I contract. My waters break, but just a bit, and yep, there's the head moving right down after it. So I say to Pidge, call an ambulance, and get some towels on the bed, and he gets this expression on his face, and then asks if I'm ok, because I've gone really pale and have a glazed look. I tell him we're not going to make it to the hospital and to get some towels on the damn bed, again, and he finally gets it. I'm not joking. As if I would joke about something like that.
It's 7.45 by the time Mum has fully accepted that I'm an inconvenience once again, and after her moaning once I'd told her we weren't making it to the hospital, and the squealing from the girls that followed that declaration, I'm on the bed, and Pidge is getting annoyed with the phone operator, because she's asking if I'm breathing, having a heart attack etc, going through the standard motions one does when they are a phone operator for the ambulance service. He's just telling her that he can't see the baby yet, when the phone flies across the bed, and Tristan Dominik is born. Then Mum does something really daft, and gives the phone to me, so I have this woman talking to me, and I'm all like, the baby's out, and she still thinks she's talking to Mum. I throw the phone back, somehow still having the wherewithal to pull an 'I am not amused face', before I register that Mum is, in fact, panicking, and that Pidge, and myself, are not.
Weird.
Tristan is retrieved of the cord round his neck and tummy by Pidge, wrapped in a towel, and then given to me. Which is nice. All the kidlets come and say hi to their new brother before they head downstairs to carry on getting ready for school and head off out the door. Then the ambulance turns up, and the medics are all like "oh, we missed it! but well done,' and he's gone - being dressed by a woman who doesn't know how to put a nappy on the right way (we found out later) and who has never been to a birth before, so she's excited that it's her first. Her enthusiasm is not infectious, but it is sweet. Afterbirth is delivered and placed in a large yellow sack (again can I say yuck) and all everyone has to do is wait for me to get dressed, so we can go.
When we arrive at the hospital it's been nearly an hour since birth. Pidge has a goofy look on his face that won't shift, and we find out that Flumpitt is 9lb 2 ozs. And 56 cm long. We only have to stick around for about another 2 hours, then we can go.
McDonald's has never been so satisfying.
Like I Said, Never The 'Easy' Way
Thursday, after birth, weighing and lunch, went fairly well. Cheeky went to Mum's. Sputnik and Raggedy stayed home to ogle their brother. Breastfeeding went well, as far as I was concerned, although it was a pain with said ogling audience. I had expected to be feeding every hour or so, so I wasn't really miffed about it. I was just tired, which wasn't surprising, and dozing instead of sleeping because Flumpitt was feeding for half an hour each hour, so yeah, that was, well, what it was.
Friday was ok for a while. We had a couple of friends come visit, which was nice, and feeding was going frequently, but still, I felt quite happy about it, aside from being tired. Then it just all went tits up. Pardon the pun. I was pretty much feeding constantly, and Flumpitt was getting more and more stressed out, and by 4am I'd gone into mini meltdown and went completely nuts. I came downstairs and tried to sort out the sterliser. Pidge wouldn't wake up, Flumpitt wouldn't stop screaming and I couldn't stop crying. Finally Pidge woke up and came down to help, but by then I'd already lost it, fallen down the stairs twice, and just couldn't function. In the end, he only took about half an ounce from the bottle.
Saturday morning came with visit from a different midwife. Who was lovely and nice, and told me very gently that my positioning was wrong and showed me what I should be doing. Pidge helped me through the day to make sure Flumpitt was latched on properly, and saw me through a few more crying bouts. One bottle and another early morning worth of constant breast feeding, and I was about ready to bust all over again.
I started alternating between breast and bottle yesterday. And the bottles are most definitely making a difference. A huge, relieving, comforting difference. Plus, we're both sleeping better. Flumpitt looks less dehydrated, and seems generally more content, which tells me it's for the best. That it's the right thing to do, but still...
See it's like this. Sputnik was breast fed, and I thought I was doing fine til she got noted by the health visitor (who had, just FYI, told me I was positioned properly and all sorts) as failing to thrive. She lost loads of weight, and we ended up in hospital with her, eventually putting her on bottles until she'd gained enough weight to come home. She was four week old then. RaggedyAnn was also breast fed. For two weeks. I'd already said the second she lost too much weight, I was stopping. Cheeky fed for two, because as determined as I was, I was always panicking in the back of my head that it wouldn't work. This time, I thought, it'd be different. I wouldn't get stressed out over it, wouldn't worry if I couldn't do it, and it'd be ok. Thing of it is, I know that it's not the be all and end all if I don't breast feed. I know that he's already had the 'best' part, with the anti-bodies and whatnot, I know that what's important is that he's healthy, and thriving, and sleeping and not getting stressed out. But, for the life of me, I still feel like a failure. I can pop babies out without problems, but when it comes to feeding, I suck. Plain and simple. And that's a proper slap to the face.
As an aside, it has given me a fic idea, but that's beside the point.
It still sucks.
Well...
I guess, now, things are just going to get more interesting, and better. I have a lovely family. I'm blessed with four beautiful children and a husband who loves me more than I will ever know (at least according to him, but I'm pretty certain I've got the right amount in my head.) If anything, the last few days of sleep deprived angst and drama have been an eye opener at how much support he gives me. Midwife has been, and agrees that I've done the right thing - that it's what's best for Tristan that matters. I got a gorgeous bouquet of flowers, and I'm feeling a bit better. Plus, I have some lovely Kirk/McCoy McCoy/Chapel fic to read :)
TTFN
Grr Arrgh
Flumpitt still hasn’t shown up. And I’m now heading over the 2 weeks late mark (by my dates) but, according to the “Health Professionals” (and I use the term loosely) am technically only 8 days over. Still, I’m booked in for induction on Sunday, so at least I know one way or another, that by next Monday, there’ll be a bouncing bundle of baby joy (do you sense the sarcasm here?) that we’ll all have to get used to, and won’t that be fun?
Actually, that’s not fair. It will be fun, and nice and lovely and smushy, because that’s what happens when people have babies/new additions to families. And I will enjoy it, even if I do bitch and moan about it, which I will, because I’ll probably be very knackered and not in the mood for lovey-dovey stuff when I know exactly and precisely that it’s going to wear me out looking after a baby again. Plus, all the visits from people. Add that into the mix, and all I’ll really feel like doing is screaming. Still, it’ll be nice and fun. Sort of.
I think I’m a little apprehensive. Not because of having Flumpitt, or that Flumpitt is being a lazy boy just like Cheeky was, and is late; but because I’m wondering how Cheeky is going to react to it all. He’s still only a ‘baby’ himself, and he knows that there’s a baby in mummy’s tummy, and all that, and I think he gets it - at least a little, but still, it’s going to be a huge adjustment for him. That’s not to say it won’t be a huge one for the rest of us, but Sputnik and RaggedyAnn have only just gone through this when I had Cheeky, and they were old enough then to really understand, most, if not all of what was happening. I’m contemplating the relationship changes more than anything else at the moment, ’cause as much as I know that I care for them all the same, that doesn’t necessarily mean that they know, if you know what I mean.
Plus, there’s Pidge to consider. Pidge, who has been going out of his way, and losing time off work (money) in the meantime, getting the kids to school (because he doesn’t want me to go out and fall over in this snow - and I’ll talk about the weather in a bit, but yeah, loads of snow) and taking me down to the midwife, and generally being knackered and run down and all the things that come from wanting to see the baby that he knows we’re having, but won’t actually believe we’re having until he’s holding him… no matter how many nights sleep have been disturbed because of the fact I can’t get comfy, at all.
So, yeah, my relationship with Pidge, and how that will all, inevitably change, again, is another thing to consider, with the other things I’m considering.
So, yeah, that aside - the weather - is, for lack of a better word, nuts. We’ve had about another 2-3 inches of snow here since this morning, and it’s still coming down. I don’t particularly mind the snow myself - in fact, I’d probably enjoy taking Cheeky out in it, because he loves it, but it’s just something I can’t do. It’s too risky what with my footing and whatnot, and I really don’t want to fall over. Not that I’d want to fall over if I wasn’t about to have Flumpitt, but still… And the way that it’s practically ground everything to a halt is completely crazy. If it rains we flood, if it’s too sunny and hot, we complain, but if it snows, we all lose our minds and turn into crazy, insane people who can’t cope. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not insensitive. I’m completely aware at how bad it has been and is, for some people: not being able to leave the house, being snowed in, not being able to go shopping and not having enough food, car crashes, injuries, and even death. But for most, it’s just another day except with snow, and honestly, I can’t get why it’s that big of a deal.
Take Mum, for an example. I love her to pieces, really, I do, but you would think that, aside from the inconvenience it causes for her to get to me within fifteen minutes if I go into labour, a little bit of snow wouldn’t make much difference. You’d be so wrong about that it’d scare you. Everything from the day of the first snowfall has been overly planned, timed and everything else in between. She dissects every situation that involves her going out in one minute, and in the next, she’s devising ways in which she can avoid said situations. And if her meticulous timing plans don’t work around the weather and the traffic, it’s disastrous, and warrants ranting and raving and all sorts of maddening behaviour. Seriously, the woman has gone insane. She has issues. But I love her anyway.
Aside from not being able to go out, I actually think it all looks quite pretty. Plus, it’s funny to watch my cats attempt to run through our garden in it, because it comes to roughly half their height, and they look ridiculously, idiotically cute and moronic when they try :)
Very quickly - I’d just like to say that Winnie the Pooh is completely doing my head in. If I have to sit through this Heffalump movie one more time…
We Never Can Do Things The 'Easy' Way
Thursday, 14th Jan, 1am:
I'm still up with Pidge discussing that I have a midwife appointment for a membrane sweep at 12.30, and we're figuring out if he'll be able to get back from work in time if I go into labour, if she somehow manages to set me off, which she probably won't, but still, worth discussing. Eventually we decide on a yes he will be able to get back in time, but, if I get to the midwife and change my mind, I don't have to have it done, and we can just wait until induction day. So we go to bed.
Thursday, 14th Jan, 4.30am onwards: The Event
Woke up with twinges strong enough to not be able to go back to sleep. Every twenty minutes, and they're only lasting about 10-15 seconds each anyway, so I go downstairs. At 5.30am I promptly go back upstairs and throw up the remainder of my stomach contents (silently thanking everything that at least we ate early tonight, although, stomach bile = yuck). Cheeky wakes up with the noise, and we go downstairs. There is nothing more bizarre than setting up a wooden train set with your two year old while you're in labour, I'm telling you. Well, there is, but there wasn't at that time. The next time I look at the clock, it's 6.30am, and my contractions are coming steadily every 5-10 mins, but I can't concentrate long enough on what I'm doing long enough (because I'm having to assure Cheeky that yes, I'm ok, and yes, he's doing very well with his trains) to actually figure out how long there's lasting for, so I try waking up Pidge. By phone, not shouting, cause then Sputnik and Raggedy would wake up, and all kinds of silly business would no doubt ensue.
Six tries, it takes. Turns out they're about 50 seconds. Huh.
By 6.45am, they're going on longer than a minute at the same interval, so we call Mum to come over (cause she's watching Cheeky and taking the girls to school) so we can get to the hospital. Midwife said to stay at home for as long as possible, so that's what we're doing, dammit. The girls are up and getting dressed and whatnot, and Cheeky is still playing, and I'm still re-assuring everyone, that yes, it's ok, and that my body is just getting ready to have the baby, yes, it hurts a bit, and no, I'm ok, honest (cause the last things I need is kidlets panicking.) Anyhoo.
Mum turns up by 7.15 and we call the hospital. Well, Pidge calls the hospital, who are, in my ever so humble opinion, bloody stupid idiots, whether they're midwives for a living or not, because I'm contracting with heavy breathing and all sorts, and they won't speak to him, they absolutely have to no way in hell can talk to anybody else but me. So I'm telling the stupid woman on the phone, that I'm having the baby, and we're coming in, just going to get ready and see you soon, before coming off the phone and bitching about the fact that she wouldn't just let Pidge tell her that.
7.30 rolls by and I finally get upstairs, sit down on the loo, and oops, there you go, I contract. My waters break, but just a bit, and yep, there's the head moving right down after it. So I say to Pidge, call an ambulance, and get some towels on the bed, and he gets this expression on his face, and then asks if I'm ok, because I've gone really pale and have a glazed look. I tell him we're not going to make it to the hospital and to get some towels on the damn bed, again, and he finally gets it. I'm not joking. As if I would joke about something like that.
It's 7.45 by the time Mum has fully accepted that I'm an inconvenience once again, and after her moaning once I'd told her we weren't making it to the hospital, and the squealing from the girls that followed that declaration, I'm on the bed, and Pidge is getting annoyed with the phone operator, because she's asking if I'm breathing, having a heart attack etc, going through the standard motions one does when they are a phone operator for the ambulance service. He's just telling her that he can't see the baby yet, when the phone flies across the bed, and Tristan Dominik is born. Then Mum does something really daft, and gives the phone to me, so I have this woman talking to me, and I'm all like, the baby's out, and she still thinks she's talking to Mum. I throw the phone back, somehow still having the wherewithal to pull an 'I am not amused face', before I register that Mum is, in fact, panicking, and that Pidge, and myself, are not.
Weird.
Tristan is retrieved of the cord round his neck and tummy by Pidge, wrapped in a towel, and then given to me. Which is nice. All the kidlets come and say hi to their new brother before they head downstairs to carry on getting ready for school and head off out the door. Then the ambulance turns up, and the medics are all like "oh, we missed it! but well done,' and he's gone - being dressed by a woman who doesn't know how to put a nappy on the right way (we found out later) and who has never been to a birth before, so she's excited that it's her first. Her enthusiasm is not infectious, but it is sweet. Afterbirth is delivered and placed in a large yellow sack (again can I say yuck) and all everyone has to do is wait for me to get dressed, so we can go.
When we arrive at the hospital it's been nearly an hour since birth. Pidge has a goofy look on his face that won't shift, and we find out that Flumpitt is 9lb 2 ozs. And 56 cm long. We only have to stick around for about another 2 hours, then we can go.
McDonald's has never been so satisfying.
Like I Said, Never The 'Easy' Way
Thursday, after birth, weighing and lunch, went fairly well. Cheeky went to Mum's. Sputnik and Raggedy stayed home to ogle their brother. Breastfeeding went well, as far as I was concerned, although it was a pain with said ogling audience. I had expected to be feeding every hour or so, so I wasn't really miffed about it. I was just tired, which wasn't surprising, and dozing instead of sleeping because Flumpitt was feeding for half an hour each hour, so yeah, that was, well, what it was.
Friday was ok for a while. We had a couple of friends come visit, which was nice, and feeding was going frequently, but still, I felt quite happy about it, aside from being tired. Then it just all went tits up. Pardon the pun. I was pretty much feeding constantly, and Flumpitt was getting more and more stressed out, and by 4am I'd gone into mini meltdown and went completely nuts. I came downstairs and tried to sort out the sterliser. Pidge wouldn't wake up, Flumpitt wouldn't stop screaming and I couldn't stop crying. Finally Pidge woke up and came down to help, but by then I'd already lost it, fallen down the stairs twice, and just couldn't function. In the end, he only took about half an ounce from the bottle.
Saturday morning came with visit from a different midwife. Who was lovely and nice, and told me very gently that my positioning was wrong and showed me what I should be doing. Pidge helped me through the day to make sure Flumpitt was latched on properly, and saw me through a few more crying bouts. One bottle and another early morning worth of constant breast feeding, and I was about ready to bust all over again.
I started alternating between breast and bottle yesterday. And the bottles are most definitely making a difference. A huge, relieving, comforting difference. Plus, we're both sleeping better. Flumpitt looks less dehydrated, and seems generally more content, which tells me it's for the best. That it's the right thing to do, but still...
See it's like this. Sputnik was breast fed, and I thought I was doing fine til she got noted by the health visitor (who had, just FYI, told me I was positioned properly and all sorts) as failing to thrive. She lost loads of weight, and we ended up in hospital with her, eventually putting her on bottles until she'd gained enough weight to come home. She was four week old then. RaggedyAnn was also breast fed. For two weeks. I'd already said the second she lost too much weight, I was stopping. Cheeky fed for two, because as determined as I was, I was always panicking in the back of my head that it wouldn't work. This time, I thought, it'd be different. I wouldn't get stressed out over it, wouldn't worry if I couldn't do it, and it'd be ok. Thing of it is, I know that it's not the be all and end all if I don't breast feed. I know that he's already had the 'best' part, with the anti-bodies and whatnot, I know that what's important is that he's healthy, and thriving, and sleeping and not getting stressed out. But, for the life of me, I still feel like a failure. I can pop babies out without problems, but when it comes to feeding, I suck. Plain and simple. And that's a proper slap to the face.
As an aside, it has given me a fic idea, but that's beside the point.
It still sucks.
Well...
I guess, now, things are just going to get more interesting, and better. I have a lovely family. I'm blessed with four beautiful children and a husband who loves me more than I will ever know (at least according to him, but I'm pretty certain I've got the right amount in my head.) If anything, the last few days of sleep deprived angst and drama have been an eye opener at how much support he gives me. Midwife has been, and agrees that I've done the right thing - that it's what's best for Tristan that matters. I got a gorgeous bouquet of flowers, and I'm feeling a bit better. Plus, I have some lovely Kirk/McCoy McCoy/Chapel fic to read :)
TTFN